Yes, I’d been on a roll writing-wise. Sunday afternoon found me out on my patio listening to the tiny otter water fountain, writing. God, I love wireless Internet and laptop computers. I finished a scene, incorporated some of what I did in the original draft, and have made what was three chapters seven. Because a LOT more is happening. I’d worried I was revealing too much too soon. Solved that problem, didn’t I?
But when the laptop battery died, I stopped working. I had ever intention to pick up where I left off later in the day, but that didn’t happen. Instead, I bummed out. I’d already shirked responsibility in the basement for the day, why not the writing stuff, too?
Monday and Tuesday found me from 8:30 to 3:00 at Cub Scout Day Camp. All I can say is thank God we didn’t go on a camp out. It’s Wednesday morning and I’m ready for the weekend. Needless to say, no writing was accomplished. However, whenever the camp leader would say, “Pick your BB gun up,” I kept twitching because he was splitting an infinitive.
Not that I ever do that. Nope. Never.
Today I’m at work in the morning, but not sure about the afternoon. For that matter, not sure about the rest of the week. I had planned to have it off (the joys of a school-year related job), but now I have a really nasty feeling that I’m going to be writing a grant letter in two days. The deadline is Sunday. We’re screwed.
Correction: I’m screwed. Being the resident writer and all.
A few years ago – I conveniently forgot how many – A friend and I made a promise to one another that in five years, we’d be making our incomes from writing. She made it. Me? Well, you see, it’s all a technicality, isn’t it? Making my living writing fiction? No, that hasn’t happened. Writing, though? Yeah, that’s what I do. I write psychological reports and make up functional skills assessments and write grant letters. That’s what I do. So technically I’ve kept my promise.
The whole fiction thing? Well, that’s kind of like the joke about the blond who prays to win the lottery but doesn’t buy a ticket. In order to get an agent, one must query them. My querying has been seriously slack as of late, though one just went out about a week ago. Whoo. I’m on a roll.
So if I don’t write a grant letter this week, I might get a chance to write fiction this week. Actually, perhaps my chances of writing at home are improved if I do write at work, now that I think about it. If I’m not working, then I need to paint. And who wants to yammer on about a dead flautist with Colonial Cream in her hair?